


Of Magic and Mystery

by Pugglemuggle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Budding Love, Coming of Age, Eventual Johnlock, Gen, Growing Up Together, M/M, Potterlock, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pugglemuggle/pseuds/Pugglemuggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout John's experiences at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the boy called Sherlock Holmes remains the most exciting, interesting, enigmatic adventure of them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Magic and Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [FuckYeahTeenlock’s](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/) [Potterlock Competition](http://fuckyeahteenlock.tumblr.com/post/71889829827/fuckyeahteenlock-fuckyeahteenlocks-potterlock). Currently, it is a one-chapter general friendship fic, but if I decide to expand it, the story will eventually become Johnlock. Thank you and enjoy!

          In the first year alone, John felt like he had lived more than he had during the entire eleven years that preceded it.

          Most of it is an odd ensemble of jagged snapshots from a tangle of memory that he’s only just starting to make sense of. A few choice moments come to mind when he thinks back to the beginning: the texture of coarse, yellowed parchment underneath his skin as he smooths fingertips over the words “Dear Mr Watson” in glimmering ink; the burst of smells and colours that spring from a bright cobble-stone alley tucked away in the largest city he’s ever known; the sounds of goodbyes and hellos and train whistles at an impossible train station with impossible people going to an impossible place; the robust taste of pumpkin juice for the first time; a loud, confident voice bellowing “GRYFFINDOR!” out over an expectant hall. After that, everything just melds into a single mass of misplaced memories. It’s all been pushed aside to make room for a much larger set of adventures, the scope of which he can only begin to comprehend now with the help of hindsight.

          Because on his third day of class at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, John met a boy.

* * *

          An exercise to cultivate inter-house relationships leads to him being paired with a tall, dark-haired Ravenclaw who sweeps over to John’s table and immediately begins to monopolize the space before they’ve exchanged so much as a “hello”.

          “You’ve already added the snake fangs,” the other boy states in lieu of a greeting. John opens his mouth to confirm this, but the boy interrupts. “You’ve crushed them all wrong but it at least looks salvageable. Hand me the horned slugs, would you?”

          John thinks this boy is rather rude, but he turns around anyway to borrow a jar of the ingredients from the unexpectedly pretty girl behind them. When he turns back, the Ravenclaw boy has John’s wand placed horizontally between his fingertips, held only inches away from his eyes.

          “Oi! That’s mine!” he protests indignantly, snatching the wand away and setting it down very pointedly at his side of the desk. The boy blinks, but otherwise remains still, his fingers still extended as though expecting the wand to be replaced. That really rubs John the wrong way. “Look, you’ve got your own blood—” He glances over at the teacher. “—your _own_ wand. What do you need to take mine for?”

          “It almost put you in Hufflepuff, didn’t it?”

          John’s a little taken aback. He stares for a moment before mumbling, “….What?”

          “Your wand,” the boy says, as though it’s a perfectly acceptable explanation. He must have seen John’s blank look, because he wastes no time in elaborating, undaunted. “Cedar, judging by the tone and texture, indicating loyalty to a fault. About ten inches—long, for someone of your stature— and more rigid than I’d expect from a pliant wood like cedar. So you’re fairly forthright, then, maybe even a bit headstrong. The wand’s too light for a dragon heartstring, and considering the wood, I’d be willing to bet there’s a unicorn hair in there. Honesty, faithfulness, determination…. All trademark qualities of the gentler house. So, the question becomes: Why Gryffindor? Obviously the Sorting Hat must have had to struggle with the very same question, which would explain why it took significantly longer to sort you than it did to sort your peers. But what made the decision so difficult? Why _not_ Hufflepuff? Unless…someone convinced the Sorting Hat otherwise.”

          John doesn’t know what to say for a good while. When he does speak, all he finds himself saying is, “Gryffindors are known for being loyal, too.”

          “True,” the boy concedes, “but I don’t think that simple overlap is enough to make the Sorting Hat re-evaluate your character entirely. No…. The only way that it would have changed its mind is if you asked it to, and why would you do that? I suspect you heard something about Hufflepuff that you weren’t very keen on. Even a muggle-born like you would have known of the house’s reputation. Clearly you were repulsed by the idea of being perceived as ‘weak’ or ‘a bit slow’, and so you asked the hat to place you in the house with a reputation for impulsiveness and indiscretion.”

          There's a moment of tense silence. John stares at the Ravenclaw boy, as do a few of the less discrete eavesdroppers sitting at the tables around them.  Then—

          “…Brilliant.”

          The other boy’s imperious façade breaks momentarily, shattered by a flash of almost childish bewilderment before it's replaced with a scrutinizing glare. “You don’t think I’m a tosser, then?”

          “A bit,” John admits.

          “But you think what I did was brilliant?”

          “I… well, yes.”

          The boy seemed to accept that. After a short pause, a thought seems to occur to him. “Did I get anything wrong?”

          “My wand is cedar, 10 inches, and has a unicorn hair core. The hat was considering putting me in Hufflepuff, but I asked it not to—”

          “So, I was right.”

          “—but not because I was afraid people would think I was a sissy.” John continues. The Ravenclaw boy looked a little disappointed. “I asked to be in Gryffindor because I heard that people have adventures there.”

          “Adventures?”

          “You know….” John says, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing away. “Adventure. Things like sneaking out after dark, or playing tricks on people you don’t like. Risky things. Not anything _really_ dangerous, because that would be silly, but a bit of risk’s fine.”

          “…Is solving mysteries an adventure?” the boy asks. John thinks about it.

          “Yeah, I suppose that could be an adventure.”

          “Good,” says the boy, and despite his perpetually lofty tone, he sounds pleased. “It’s good to meet you, John.”

          John hesitates. “How—?”

          “The textbook’s open. Your name is in the front cover.”

          “Okay…” John says. “It’s good to meet you too, uh…?”

          “Sherlock,” the boy prompts. “Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

 

          Later that year, John would fly a broom for the first time. He would also cast his first spell, and shortly thereafter, his first hex, which would consequently be followed by his first detention. His first trip to the astronomy tower, his first real Halloween, his first timed essay, and his first anonymous valentine all occurred within that single year, as did his first Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean (spinach) and his first near-death experience (a dare involving a rather violent old willow).

          But the instances that seem to stand out the most starkly in his memory are the ones involving Sherlock Holmes: the first time Sherlock showed him the Flame Freezing Charm, the first time he heard Sherlock make a joke, the first time Sherlock sought him out in the library, the first time he was invited along on a “case”. Oddly enough, he doesn’t actually remember much about the event itself. The situation had something to do with a series of thefts perpetrated by a rogue house elf (“Beings that can pass by unseen and unremembered, like ghosts…. No, not actual ghosts, John.”) and the whole ordeal had ended with each of their houses 50 points richer and the Hogwarts kitchen staff one member short. And yet, despite how easily the details seem to slip away, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the rush of adrenaline, the hammering in his heart, the pure, ecstatic joy he felt when it was all said and done. The sorting hat had not wronged him. There was no doubt in his mind that while it hadn’t come to him in the way he’d expected, he was most certainly experiencing something that was indisputably defined as adventure.

          That’s why if anyone were to ask him about what he thought was the most important thing to happen to him that year, he would answer, unequivocally, confidently, invariably, “Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
